


Fools On A Blessed Dance Floor

by Guardian_Rose



Series: Together We're Golden [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Based on a Tumblr Post, Can be touchy in terms of:, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Some Suggestive Metaphysical Shenanigans, but not sex, domestic abuse, so if that's something you're sensitive to, then think seriously and read the description properly to determine whether the fic is for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 16:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19380808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Rose/pseuds/Guardian_Rose
Summary: The food arrives and Crowley moves to start to eat only for Aziraphale to grab his wrist. Crowley quirks a brow over his glasses.“You see, I’m feeling particularly....angelic today,” that never means anything good, “so really we should say Grace before we eat.”Crowley lets it happen without much more protest than a strangled ‘angel?’.He does not get to eat lunch.***Based on this 'aziraphale’s mad at crowley for some reason so he starts blessing everything in sight' post from tumblr , not my post but not sure how to link to it otherwise





	Fools On A Blessed Dance Floor

**Author's Note:**

> [ Based on this 'aziraphale’s mad at crowley for some reason so he starts blessing everything in sight' post from tumblr , not my post but not sure how to link to it otherwise](https://wordtotherose.tumblr.com/post/185857421445/crowleyraejepsen-anthonycrowley)
> 
> Check it out on tumblr!
> 
> Edit (17/9/19): I received a comment recently alerting me to the fact that this fic can have a tone of domestic abuse within the relationship which was in no way my intention nor did I even realise it came across as such until this comment and then a friend alerted me to the fact. Because this has come to life I want you, the reader, to think more critically when you read this than I did after writing it. If this sort of instance is something you are sensitive to then don't read, your health comes first always. If you are still going to read on, then I encourage you to think about the issues raised in this fic and to be critical (please not in the comments, I understand) in your own opinions of it. Thanks! Have a good day!

Crowley wakes up one morning to an empty bed. Not a bother usually. Aziraphale has started to take to sleeping but is generally better at the ‘going to sleep together’ than the ‘waking up together’. He’s always been good at the nightmares thing though, even before he started experiencing them himself. The necessity to calm Crowley’s night terrors has tripled since the Armage-didn’t-go-so-well. They’re both suffering. 

 

Aziraphale has doubts and ‘what ifs’ circling like vultures in his mind. Crowley has refreshed memories of Before that always leave him as soon as his eyes open; forever to be replaced with the grasping phantom pain of Satan rising through the tarmac. 

 

On the nights when he verges into a fresh hurricane of panic he reverts to full snake and curls round Aziraphale whilst he potters about the house. Sometimes he falls back asleep this way. The angel’s voice lulling him into temporary oblivion when he reads. 

 

One memorable time he’d woken up when Aziraphale was in the village’s church. He’d rapidly slid from the angel’s coat pocket to sit on his shoulders and hiss his outrage into Aziraphale’s ear. The vicar had had a right fright and now Aziraphale couldn’t help with the bake sales.

 

Apparently it is unsanitary to sell cakes when you have a snake for a scarf. Crowley had taken mighty offence at the ‘unsanitary’ comment and made a point of yawning, dislocating his jaw and all, to freak her out further. Probably didn’t help that Aziraphale called him Eden, pointedly explaining it was a reference to the garden of Eden. 

 

Crowley had cooked dinner that night. 

 

Still. He’s awake. The bed’s empty. The radio is on downstairs. 

 

He doesn’t feel like getting out of bed but he really does feel like having his angel closer. He closes his eyes against the sunlight shifting through the room and rolls onto his stomach. The radio report cuts off to be replaced with Queen.

 

The bedroom door opens a minute later and Crowley can’t entirely squash the smile off his face. He doesn’t open his eyes but he knows, soul-based knowledge, that Aziraphale is scowling in the doorway.

 

“Most people get out of bed if they want something.”

 

His smile turns to a smirk. “Good job I’m not most people then.”

 

The huff, prissy and perfect, is barely audible. The bed dips and Crowley pats around with his hand to find the angel physically. His fingers finally brush what he believes to be Aziraphale’s thigh. This is confirmed a moment later when a pair of hands capture his wandering own with a disapproving tut.

 

“You still in pyjamas, angel?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Wanna sleep some more. Is cold.”

 

“That’s because the duvet is on your side of the bed not mine, which you appear to have claimed for yourself anyway.” Aziraphale punctuates this by leaning over Crowley to tug at the blankets.

 

Crowley takes the opportunity, with unfettered glee, to flip over and then wrap himself, arms and legs and non-corporeal wings, around the angel to then roll back to his side of the bed. The result is Aziraphale on his back, shuffling to get comfier, with Crowley sprawled on top of him. Aziraphale settles, trying his best to pin Crowley with The Look but only succeeding with a look. A look of unrestrained affection mostly. Crowley kisses the corner of his lips, suddenly overwhelmed with tenderness. He briefly wishes for his glasses. Pointless considering Aziraphale can feel quite literally the waves of love rolling off of him regardless of what he reads in Crowley’s face. Yet, six thousand years is a long habit to break. It’s taking time and he’s immeasurably glad that the angel is willing to give it to him in spades. Not that he really doubted Aziraphale wouldn’t.

 

“Good morning” Aziraphale says softly, brushing Crowley’s bedhead into some sort of order with his fingers.

 

“Pretty good so far,” Crowley quips, dipping his head to hide his all too expressive eyes, and to dust the angel’s jaw with chaste kisses.

 

“Only pretty good?”

 

Crowley huffs and swipes his fingers up Aziraphale’s side, relishing in how ticklish the angel can be. “Fucking fantastic then, that more to your liking?”

 

“Much better, my dear.”

 

Aziraphale, with beautifully painted nails (gold), tilts Crowley’s face back up to his and captures his lips in a kiss. Nothing more than the sensation of lips on lips until Crowley pushes. Metaphysically more than physically. Though their hands, minds of their own of course, pull each other infinitesimally closer on the bed. 

 

Crowley presses for more in that space their true beings inhabit with their wings in their intended glory. And Aziraphale gives as if he’s been waiting for Crowley to wake up all morning in order to do exactly this. This heady intermingling of two souls that should've been destined to want as much distance between them as possible but have found the exact opposite. Thoughts are heard and said and shared. 

 

Crowley orbits Aziraphale, teasing and oh so content, until Aziraphale reels him in close. 

 

Close, close, close. 

 

It’s not sex. Neither are much fussed on sex. No. It’s intimacy. 

 

On an atomic level. 

 

***

 

Crowly wakes up for the second time feeling groggy and out of step with the world. The alarm clock on Aziraphale’s bedside table says it’s some time past eleven though that’s all he can confidently say, what with the thick book blocking the bottom half of the clock. This time Aziraphale is still there, though he’s across the room. He assumes that that is what woke him.

 

“Angel?” Crowley slurs; they can’t have slept long, he often feels spacey when he’s only slept for half an hour instead of a normal hour. “What ya doing?”

 

“Getting dressed, my dear,” Aziraphale answers and that probably would have been obvious but Crowley’s closed his eyes again. “You need to get up soon if we’re going to make it on time.”

 

He half-heartedly racks his brain for what it is he’s meant to know. “Make what?” he asks in the end.

 

Something lands on the pillow next to his face. A quick sniff and brush of his lethargic fingers confirms it as Aziraphale’s folded pyjamas.

 

“Be downstairs in ten minutes, my dear, or I’ll go without you.”

 

“Go where?”

 

“Adam’s birthday. Do you really not remember?”

 

Crowley makes some sort of grunt that could be taken either way and doesn’t sit up. The sound of the bedroom door opening clips at his awareness, snagging his consciousness again.

 

“You won’t go without me,” he drawls.

 

“I most definitely will. Oh drat, look. I’ve mistimed it anyway.” Crowley blinks his eyes open at this, rubbing at them in an attempt to focus before Aziraphale leaves the room. “I’ll go on ahead and make your excuses for you. Try not to dither, will you? He was adamant that both of us attend.”

 

And then he’s gone. 

 

He’d said an awful lot, of that Crowley is sure. The front door closes and it briefly hits him that Aziraphale must be co-opting a bus because Crowley isn’t awake to drive him. Well, he’s taken the bus before. He’ll be fine. 

 

And Crowley will just spend another minute in bed and then he'll ...then he’ll…

 

***

 

The third time is the worst. The world is freezing cold and wet. 

 

Very, very wet. 

 

The rivulets of water running down his face do not help him with opening his eyes and getting his bearings. Once his flailing and swearing subsides he realises that the cause of the bed’s sudden attempt to drown him is in fact just Aziraphale’s attempt to drown him.

 

“Good. You’re awake.”

 

Crowley blinks and pushes his sopping fringe out of his face. Aziraphale looks upset. The sort of upset he gets when Crowley has dropped one of his books or almost ran over a pedestrian.

 

“Ngk,” is the best he manages in response.

 

Aziraphale sets a bucket on the floor. He’s done it the mundane way then. That doesn’t bode well.

 

“I think you’ve done quite enough sleeping.”

 

He glances at the window. 

 

“Angel? It’s still night,” Crowley says; Aziraphale is still staring down at him from the end of the bed. “Are you okay?”

 

“Tip top.” Aziraphale’s tone is practically caustic; Crowley is tempted to apologise even though he doesn’t know what for, his pride wins out by a millimetre. “Don’t go back to sleep.”

 

Aziraphale leaves the room and Crowley waits a minute before he clears away the water with a click of his fingers. Well. He’s certainly fucked something up.

 

***

 

Aziraphale’s study downstairs is closed, classical music escaping softly into the hallway. Crowley hesitates, hand hovering above the doorknob before he decides it’s best not to go in empty handed. It feels like forever as the kettle boils, like it’s deliberately testing his patience. But Aziraphale claims he can taste it when it’s been miracled, with that (adorable) sour expression. So Crowley sticks to his guns and heats the milk too and goes so far as to get the double cream from the fridge to make his own whipped cream. The marshmallows on top make it look decadent in the pristine angel wing mug.

 

He carries it back to the door of the study and lets out an almighty yelp when the doorknob burns his shand (he refuses to even imagine that the cocoa spills, thus it doesn’t). It’s not a normal burn. Not like fire or heated metal. It’s a burning, itchy pressure. He stares incredulously at it. Then at the door itself. Then the handle.

 

“Did you bless this?” He exclaims at last, perplexed more than anything, a touch proud of his angel’s audacity. “Aziraphale? Have you seriously  _ blessed _ this door knob?”

 

The music from inside quietens and then the door is opened a crack. Aziraphale pops his head round, lips held in an unimpressed line but a flinty spark in his eyes.

 

“I did, yes. Why?”

 

Crowley blinks owlishly, he scratches his head too because it’s first thing in the morni- well, he’s only just woken up and not much is making sense. 

 

“Well,...it’s a tad inconvenient, isn’t it? What’re you doing that you don’t want me to see?” He tries to peer round him but the door is pulled closer to block his view.

 

“Nothing,” Aziraphale says and the worst thing is that he’s not lying. “Did you need something?”

 

“Uh,” Crowley says, the antithesis of eloquence. “I made you cocoa. I thought we could talk about--”

 

“Oh, lovely,” Aziaphale interrupts, taking the mug out of Corwley’s hand, “and you made it all yourself. Thank you.”

 

“Uh.”

 

“Anything else? I was just in this really very exciting part of--”

 

Crowley shakes his head. “No, no. You uh go ahead. I will...do something.”

 

Aziraphale’s smile hardens, eyes boring into his. “Don’t go back to sleep.” And then the look is gone, like it never happened.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley promises to a closed door.

 

***

 

It steps up a notch at breakfast.

 

Crowley cooks for them. Guilt eating at him more and more but Aziraphale won’t talk about it and he has no idea what he’s done. Certainly nothing to warrant total silence, ice water as an alarm clock and a blessed door handle. Aziraphale emerges from his study when Crowley calls through about breakfast at least. So that’s something.

 

It doesn’t stay something for long.

 

There’s a jug of apple juice in the middle of their stupidly round table. Aziraphale summoned it for them which strikes him as odd but he’s not idiotic enough to question it. Instead he eats his beans and fried eggs in silence, stealing concerned glances at Aziraphale every other bite. He miracles himself a glass from the cupboard and reaches for the juice. Only to freeze mid-motion when Aziraphale speaks.

 

“I don’t think that that’s going to be any good for you.”

 

A beat passes as Crowley processes the words and then: “what?”

 

“Touch the side of the jug. The side only.”

 

He does, albeit haltingly. It’s warm. Itchy. His jaw drops as he withdraws his hand. Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, instead polishing off the last bit of his toast. 

 

“What in heaven has possessed you to do  _ that _ ?”

 

Aziraphale shrugs. Crowley takes a moment to regroup.

 

“Okay, okay.” He lays his palms on the table, leaning back in his chair and looking the angel over. “Clearly I’ve done something wrong and I’m very sorry about whatever it was.”

 

Aziraphale shrugs again. It’s so un-Aziraphale like that it’s setting Crowley’s teeth on edge.

 

“Angel, truly. I’m sorry. Just talk to me!”

 

“Maybe later.”

 

Crowley splutters, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine! Be like that. I’m going for a shower, or have you blessed that too?”

 

Aziraphale’s pleasant smile is not reassuring at all. It’s like he’s been taking lessons from Gabriel and that thought gives him a full body shiver. Nope. Not that. Not thinking on that.

 

***

 

He emerges from the shower steam with a better plan to handle everything. Maybe, he thinks, Aziraphale is frustrated that we haven’t spent much time together lately. Not like they used to. Trips to the Ritz require much more travelling and effort now and Crowley’s been busy with his greenhouse building then sleeping to try and make up for it. So maybe Aziraphale just feels a bit neglected. That’s fine! Well not fine but he can fix that! He can solve that. Is more than happy to.

 

He corners Aziraphale when the angel is making a drink and proposes the lunch date idea. Aziraphale is predictably amenable and so Cowley drives them to the nearest decent sushi restaurant. They order and chat about inane things like the horrible wallpaper that the Scotts are thinking of using for their living room that contrasts dreadfully with the wallpaper in their hallway. It’s going well. As if Crowley has indeed put his finger on the issues and found the solution. The food arrives and Crowley moves to start to eat only for Aziraphale to grab his wrist. Crowley quirks a brow over his glasses. 

 

“You see, I’m feeling particularly....angelic today,” that never means anything good, “so really we should say Grace before we eat.”

 

Crowley lets it happen without much more protest than a strangled ‘angel?’. 

 

He does not get to eat lunch.

 

***

 

Anathema arrives on their doorstep that afternoon with a slice of cake wrapped in a serviette (white with balloons). Crowley opens the door and calls for Aziraphale to come out the study as he leads Anathema into the living room. She sits in the armchair whilst Crowley lounges on one end of the sofa. When Aziraphale bustles in he sits on the opposite end. There’s the usual round of greetings and ‘how are you’s, ‘oh fine’s. Anathema recalls the cake in her hands and puts it on the coffee table. Aziraphale is already leaning forward in his seat when Anathema fixes him with a sharp look and pushes the cake towards Crowley who has the initiative to understand that it’s meant for him. 

 

“Adam said you are not at all to bless it,” Anathema says sternly.

 

“Oh ho,” Crowley says, “So even  _ you _ know why he’s upset with me? Care to share?”

 

“No, she does not,” Aziraphale says. “If you can’t figure it out yourself then you don’t get to know.”

 

Crowley tilts his head towards him against the back of the sofa. He had already put his sunglasses on when he’d seen Anathema walking down the drive but Aziraphale still won’t look at him.

 

“Angel.”

 

Anathema clears her throat. “Anyway, I came to deliver that from Adam and to say I’m going back to America to see my Mom. I’ve left my number with Adam if you need me.”

 

“Is that young lad of yours going with you?”

 

“Newt? No, no. God no. Much too early for that. He’s back in London for now. We’re keeping in touch.” She smiles, pointedly, at Aziraphale who flushes a little.

 

“Why’s Adam sent me cake?” Crowley asks, partly because it’s been bugging him and partly to regain some presence in the room. “Not that I’m gonna say no to cake but why?”

 

Aziraphale sighs deeply and Anathema looks at him like he’s grown a second head. Or just lost the one he has.

 

“It was Adam’s birthday yesterday,” Anathema explains, “Aziraphale said you were catching up on sleep ‘cause of nightmares.”

 

“Angel!” Crowley’s memories start to clink together, like coins falling into the bottom of a money jar. He’s not sure where he got that analogy from. He doesn’t like it but Aziraphale is already talking again. 

 

“I know! It was mean of me to tell them that but you didn’t show when you promised you would and I was at a loss as to what to say. I was quite a bit mad too. But that’s because you keep doing that. I know you like sleeping but really, do you need to keep missing our dates for it?”

 

“Adam’s party was a date?” Crowley asks; ‘stupid’ flashing in his head in neon letters as soon as the words leave his mouth.

 

“No!”

 

“I should hope not,” Anathema says at the same time. “Though he was very understanding when you didn’t show up.”

 

“‘Course he was,” Crowley says.

 

Anathema stands, brushing her skirt down. “I ought to get going. I’ll get Adam to send you my details. I’d give you them now but I’ve left my phone in the car.”

 

Aziraphale stands too. Ever the polite (if passive aggressive at times) host. “Yes, we’ll be in touch. I hope you have a good trip home.”

 

Crowley stays on the sofa. Lost in his head until Aziraphale returns, sitting next to him and twiddling his thumbs. He’s got that tell-tale itchy feeling but he’s not sure why.

 

“I didn’t realise I’d been sleeping so much,” Crowley says at last, pushing away a wrinkle in his jeans. “I didn’t mean to miss the party.”

 

“I know.” Not quite forgiveness, but close.

 

“I guess I’m just used to having to find stuff to do in between seeing you and filling quotas and now I have no quotas and always see you, “ Aziraphale looks at him, a little worried so Crolwey hurries on, “which is great! Seriously, wanted this for millennia. Trust me. But also...not having had this for millennia…”

 

Aziraphale’s panic fades to a soft smile. “You’re still adjusting.”

 

“Right, yes. That.”

 

“I’m sorry too. I knew you didn’t mean it.” Aziraphale takes his hand in his, shuffling closer so they’re pressed side by side and  _ that _ is forgiveness. “I was being petty. I’m sorry for blessing things, it’s your house too. I’ll uh try to figure out how to undo that.”

 

Crowley chuckles and squeezes the angel’s hand in his. The scratching at the back of his throat is still there, maybe he blessed the cake after all. “I’m kind of impressed by that actually. Very devious of you, angel.”

 

Aziraphale preens a little at this, does a bit of a wiggle and Crowley, honest to Someone, cannot help leaning in for a kiss. 

 

A kiss foiled by Aziraphale’s short cry and scrambling down the sofa to the other end. Crowley, now looking an absolute idiot with his eyes half-closed and tipped forwards into empty space, does most certainly not make a noise halfway between a whine and a growl.

 

“Angel?”

 

He’s blushing with embarrassment. Soft cheeks dusted red all the way across his nose. He does meet Crowley’s gaze though.

 

“There is a slight possibility,” Aziraphale says, “that I blessed some uh lip balm and then put it on. But you see! I was really quite annoyed with you and I knew if you tried to- to well seduce me, shall we say, then I’d give in. Which I didn’t want to do.”

 

“So,” Crowley says slowly, drawing it out, “what you’re saying is that I can’t kiss you? And you absolutely cannot kiss  _ me _ ?”

 

“Well, not on the lips. No.”

 

Crowley quirks a brow and takes his glasses off, leaving them on the arm of the sofa behind him. “You see how there’s an imbalance here? I can still kiss you,” he edges up to the gradually catching up angel, “just not on the lips. But  _ you _ cannot kiss me at all. I think you’ve punished yourself more than me.”

 

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley who’s now leaning over him, hovering his body above without touching. Breaths mingling. Yeah. That explains the itch in his throat. The angel below him is clearly not at all bothered with how the tables have turned.

 

“To be fair, my dear, I’m not built for that sort of thing.”

 

Crowley dips his head, letting his nose and the tips of his hair whisper against Aziraphale’s neck, the angel arches slightly. Waiting.

 

“You sure?” he purrs.

 

Aziraphale’s fingers glide into Crowley’s hair. 

 

Then Crowley has no hair and is smugly slithering out into the kitchen to go for an afternoon sunbathe in the garden. 

 

Aziraphael’s outraged calls (mixed with a few blessed curses) have him hissing with laughter all the way to their apple tree. Aziraphale can take all the revenge he wants for this later, when he’s had a shower.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> No beta, all mistakes my own
> 
> Prompts welcome here and on my writing tumblr [WordToTheRose ](https://wordtotherose.tumblr.com/) or come say hi on my main [Guardian-Rose-Petal](https://guardian-rose-petal.tumblr.com/)


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